Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages

A curious bit of sideline anthropology from Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow:

The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.

I’d dispute a portion of this notion – since urban legends (localized nowhere and adoptable everywhere) and purely digital tales (like slenderman) have still managed to take hold among today’s highly mobile populations – but it does generally feel we all have impoverished local traditions thanks to such turnover.

My whole course of life has been desultory

We went apple picking this past weekend to celebrate the apparent true launch of fall, and I somehow or other came home struck with the need to read Washington Irving.  This is from the preface to his Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon

The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply [to Sir Walter Scott’s offer of job as editor of a review], which underwent some modifications in the copy sent:

“I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty; but, somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that warms every creeping thing into heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both surprises and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than I have myself.”

I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, but by the very constitution and habits of my mind. “My whole course of life,” I observed, “has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my talents, such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind as I would those of a weathercock. Practice and training may bring me more into rule; but at present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own country Indians or a Don Cossack.

“I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun; writing when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift my residence and write whatever is suggested by objects before me, or whatever rises in my imagination; and hope to write better and more copiously by and by.

“I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of answering your proposal than by showing what a very good-for-nothing kind of being I am.